


Midnight Plowboy

by weeesi



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 69 (Sex Position), Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Established Relationship, Fake Vintage Gay Erotica, Horrible Puns, M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Podfic Available, Roleplay, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-20
Updated: 2016-06-20
Packaged: 2018-07-16 04:13:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7251649
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/weeesi/pseuds/weeesi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Does it feel like I’m sure?” John whispers into Sherlock's ear.</p><p>Sherlock swallows again.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Midnight Plowboy

**Author's Note:**

> Approximately a million years ago I saw [ a post](https://weeesi.tumblr.com/post/142829816184/blackandwhitestriped-tag-yourself) on the tumbles with this image:
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> and obviously my brain went wow this is Sherlock's secret stash of gay erotica write a thing about it
> 
> so here is that thing.

_—slowly pushes down his pants, teasing, revealing a long, thick—_

Sherlock’s fingers twitch where they are loosely curled against the duvet.

_—cock, which springs proudly out of the halo of blond curls. He feels his mouth water at the sight, his own member pulsing fiercely in his trousers. What he wouldn’t give to have a touch and a taste, have a chance to suck that pretty dick dry._

Sherlock swallows and moves his hand between his legs as he quietly turns the page.

_He drops to his knees and licks his lips. ‘Go on then,’ he winks ravishingly at his lover, ‘fill me up.'_

Sherlock’s hand moves quietly over the bulge in his y-fronts. He dips his fingers into the slit to release his cock, pink and swollen against the pale curve of his fist. A drop of pre-come beads at the tip and he thumbs it away to rub it in, wet on soft warm dry skin. He starts to stroke himself gently, twisting his palm lazily as he reaches the next paragraph. He's growing heavy and hot in his hand and he stretches out his legs, flexing his toes as he flicks out the tip of his tongue against his bottom lip.

_His lips stretch around the handsome doctor’s throbbing manhood, the heavy satin skin an obscene pleasure against his tongue. He feels the blond man’s strong thighs clench in his hands as he bobs his head in a steady rhythm and works at the head of his cock before pushing him in deep, deeper, deeper…he holds him there in his mouth, deep in his throat and thinks about how badly he wants to be fucked, hard and good, the army doctor would fuck him just like he wants—_

“Sherlock?”

“Fuck—” Sherlock bites into his lip and shoves the book under his pillow as he throws the duvet over his legs. Damn, blotchy pink chest. Dilated pupils, he knows without checking. _Thank god John is about as observant as a cactus._

The door to his bedroom opens, spilling light from the corridor into the low-lit room and throwing John’s shadow up against the wall. Compact, perfect, distracting John. Wrapped in a towel and dripping wet, drops of water pinging onto the floorboards at his feet. Puddles. John-puddles.

“You okay?” Furrowed brow and bent shoulders with a two-finger scratch behind one ear and a shift in weight from bad leg to good leg. Sherlock feels his erection furtively nod its approval at the sight.

“Perfectly. Never been better. Sleeping.”

“With your light on?”

“That’s what strikes you as abnormal?”

“What?”

Sherlock pushes himself up to sitting. Mistake. John’s eyes scan down, up, _down._

“Sure you’re fine?” John worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Sherlock has a sudden vision of their imprint along the soft peachy skin on his inner thigh. Neat impressions and marked territory and whispers of _fuck, just like that Sherlock_ and Sherlock swallows, rough.

“Fine.”

“You look feverish.”

“I’m not.” And he punches the pillow down behind him for good measure.

“If you need anything—”

“For god’s sake, John,” Sherlock flops down on his back and turns his face into the pillow to hide the colour sprung up on his cheekbones. "I'm. Fine."

“Right,” and John shuts the bedroom door quietly behind him.

Sherlock waits until the flat goes quiet and the creaking of John’s bedroom floorboards ceases, and then resumes his enjoyment of his special book, one corner newly bent from the short stay in its improvised hiding place. The finish is rather more spectacular than usual, and Sherlock has to bite the inside of his cheek to keep himself quiet thanks to the precise imagining of another man’s face over the descriptions of the handsome blond doctor. Luckily he knows the description of another handsome blond doctor by heart. It wasn’t a difficult substitution.

 

***

 

A lot of things happen next. Sherlock fakes his death and comes back to John’s engagement to a woman ( _a woman!_ Mrs. Hudson confesses over a shared round of her nightly herbal soothers a few nights before the wedding, _oh darling he’s been gone on you since you stabbed your post to the mantle all those years ago,_  to which Sherlock shrugs with disregard and then cries about in the shower later, how wrong she is and yet how he wants to believe she isn't), he’s nearly sent to his death after bringing about that of another horrible creature ( _Charles Augustus Magnussen_ , a villainous shark, a sleek outline of man destined for a terrible ending, and Sherlock gives him that), and then perhaps uses a bit Too Much of his old friends cocaine and morphine and maybe a few other things besides and alarms everyone (including himself, _yes, himself_ , he can admit that) and then there is the whole business with Moriarty (or should he say Mary Moran, clever til the end) and the baby that goes to its real father who is by then living halfway across the world selling subprime loans or some such business and then comes a broken wrist and a love confession one night after three and a half pints and somehow the evening love confession turns into a morning _you felt this way all along?_ and _come here_ and _I never got this far in my dreams._

Then there is lots of kissing.

Sherlock, all this while, has maintained his secret stash of special books that have helped him get through some dry spells that lasted, well, for most of his post-adolescent life. It’s not that he indulges in their use very frequently, but he _does_ have urges, dammit, more often than he’d like to admit. The whole thing has been on his mind much more often in recent months, given that he and John have now had sex forty-seven (47) times and it is really rather Fucking Ace.

(Sherlock hates slang but he’d mouthed it to himself in the mirror the morning after the third time he spurted a tidy pool of come between his pubic bone and his belly button and there really isn’t a better way to describe what John Hamish Watson can do with his dick, and mouth, and hands, and all of his other body parts. But especially those parts.)

(Sherlock is in love.)

So one evening when John is busy in the shower not-wanking, but tiredly scrubbing pedestrian germs such as pneumonia out of his hair after a random shift at the surgery, Sherlock locates all of his special books, with the intention of throwing them in Mrs. Hudson’s rubbish bins behind the flat. Honestly. So what if she gets strange looks from Mrs. Turner the next day because it’s not as though the same literature isn't being read in the bedroom of the couple next door.

As he gathers the books, he re-reads the titles with fondness.

 _Back Door Buddies,_ the tale of two initially unassuming neighbours who get together after a late night mishap with a back door, which then turns into needing to check said back door, et cetera.

 _Ass Hole Buddies,_ similar plot to Back Door Buddies. They get together much quicker.

 _Cocked Up_ , a surprisingly accurate treatment of the dildo manufacturing industry in Southern Wales in the late 70s.

 _Growing Up Hard,_ star-crossed lovers, soul mates, size queens. All that rubbish. (Sherlock cries every time.)

 _Buttrustle!,_ another favourite, should’ve been adapted into a West End musical. Missed opportunity.

Sherlock stacks the books as he finds them: one under a stack of manuscripts in a sock drawer, another inside a roll of unused printing paper, one beneath an old chemistry set, three inside pillow cases and duvet covers, one even hidden between the mattress and the box spring. Their familiar covers are rubbed worn, pages dog-eared on familiar scenes, and Sherlock smiles to himself as he considers his analogue wank material. The books neatly fit into his hands and he wonders if maybe he shouldn’t give them each one last go, when his mobile suddenly roars to life with texts from Lestrade. Something about a triple homicide and a double decker. He leaves the pile hastily strewn across his bed as he leaps to pull on the Belstaff and a still-soaked John out from the shower and onto the London streets.

 

***

 

Hours later, the killer is caught, and as John putters around the flat Sherlock collapses into his chair eyes closed with the happy brain buzz of intellectual release and a half-hard cock tucked into his bespoke trousers. He’s used to the ache, the heavy pulse of wanting blood that reminds him that he is, in fact, a human male, but what he’s not quite used to is the fact that there is another human male that helps him finish the journey from half-hard to hard. A human male called John. More precisely, 1.676 metres of a beautiful human male, plus several more, _enough-to-boast-to-your-mates-about_ more, probably at least 21 centimetres, eight, maybe closer to nine inches more, if Sherlock could just get proper measurements at some point…

John.

Sherlock’s eyes fly open. No.

John is in Sherlock’s bedroom. Sherlock’s bedroom has several books on the bed. Special books.

“John!”

“Which is your favourite?” comes a voice from down the corridor.

No.

He’s crossed the space to the kitchen and the kitchen to the corridor and the corridor to the loo and the loo to the bedroom in four long strides and with each stride he can feel his heartbeat flutter higher and higher up into his throat.

John is standing beside Sherlock’s bed, back to the door, barefoot and smelling good and warm and wearing only a pair of dark green pants, a tattered copy of _Deliveries in the Rear_ tucked between fingers and thumbs. _Deep Dick_ and _Big Dick_ form tidy bookends to _Tom’s Big Pole_.

The others dot the bed like spilt porny potpourri.

Sherlock wants to melt into a puddle and seep through the floorboards.

“ _I want to pour myself down your throat_ ,” John reads without looking up and _oh, OH,_ that did something very interesting to Sherlock’s flagging erection. “ _Suck you dry and_ _then fill you up_.”

Sherlock finds he’s not able to respond, and then he is.

“They’re not mine—they’re old—they’re from a crime scene—I was putting them in the rubbish—Mrs. Hudson’s gotten out of control—Mycroft is—“

“C’mon, Sherlock.”

Sherlock clears his throat. “ _Midnight Plowboy_.” He tries to pop the _p_ for good measure but instead his voice breaks over the vowel sound in _boy_ and for the millionth time he silently curses the weaknesses of his biology.

“Hm?”

“ _Midnight Plowboy_.” Grits his teeth, waiting. “That’s my favourite.”

“Ah.” John sighs soft, with a twinge of amusement. “ _Midnight Plowboy._ A play on the film, I take it.”

“I… the plot…”

“Right, the plot. All—” John gives the worn edges a thumb-through, “…97 pages of plot. Stunning prose, character development on point, historically compelling setting—”

“Stop it. You’re horrified.”

“Wrong.”

“Wrong?”

“Anything that makes you hot makes me hot, Sherlock. Seeing you, you know. Get started.”

“John.” Pleading, a bit. Turned on, a bit.

“Let’s—where’s your favourite—” John flips to a dog-eared page, number 89. “Clever you: not the world’s only consulting detective for nothing.”

And _push,_  Sherlock is bumped up against the bed, the backs of his knees burning, John looming, warm, and close. Sherlock falls back and bounces, stretched out on his back. He’s ready to be spectacularly embarrassed and finds that he isn't, not one bit.

John climbs up and straddles him, _Midnight Plowboy_ opened and bent in two across a pinkie and a thumb. Page 89. Heavy, warm, John.

“You know how to leave clues.”

“Oh god.” Voice rough, rougher than he’d intended.

“C’mon then. Let’s go.”

“What.”

“You know.”

“What.”

“Want to act it out?”

John leans down and plants a wet bloom of a kiss across pale, thin skin. Veins like vines unfurling.

Sherlock quivers, but hesitates. Unsure.

“John. You’re sure.”

John rubs himself slowly against Sherlock’s cock. Voice low, eyes dark. Half-closing.

“Does it feel like I’m sure?” John whispers into Sherlock's ear.

Sherlock swallows again.

And _let me just,_ and he presses the space between them into nothing, into negative percent nothing. Pressed together close and tight and Sherlock breathes into the curve of skin where neck meets shoulder and John presses their cocks together, there, on Sherlock’s bed in 221B and Sherlock’s eyes roll back, close.

“ _Ooh baby, whatever you want_ ,” John reads, and Sherlock doesn’t realise John is reading until he peeks open one eye to spot the book bent open in John’s perfectly small hand, and then he realises that John is starting to read from _Midnight Plowboy on page 89,_ his favourite page, the beginning of his favourite scene. Page 89.

“ _It's already midnight._ _There isn’t enough time in the world to give you everything I want tonight, for our first time,_ ” John reads as Sherlock vibrates below him, between his legs, burning.

" _He closed_ \--"

"Wait--"

"-- _the door and reached for the bulge in my pants as I removed my jacket_."  

"--need a jacket."

"--put on a jacket, Sherlock." A pause. "Well, the narrator is clearly you, right?"

"Clearly." Sherlock scrambles out from beneath John's legs and grabs the rather wrinkled suit jacket hung over the corner of the open wardrobe cupboard. As he shrugs it on over his shoulders, he catches two navy blue eyes taking in a sneaky skim of the next few pages.

Their eyes meet.

"Just making sure we didn't need more--"

"--your phone, and I need to wear proper clothes."

"--and sh--"

"--shoes."

Sherlock is ready in moments. John holds the open book reverently.

"Now then."

He clears his throat.

" _I in turn, felt the substantial mound through the slippery fabric of his pants...and felt an immediate response,_ " John reads, and then motions for Sherlock to come closer, rolling his hips in a slow pattern to match the cadence of consonant-vowel-consonant-vowel-vowel-consonant-Sherlock-is-already-rock-hard-consonant-vowel.

Long fingers reach across empty air to touch the mound beneath slippery fabric.

True to text, there's an immediate response.

John's mouth is shiny, wet. Sherlock's is dry.

"' _Why don't you get undressed,' he said as the phone rang--"_ John scrambles for the mobile and holds it to his ear as he sort of sing-songs "ring-ring-ring" (Sherlock does not roll his eyes because 1) John would not have been able to produce a recording of a ringtone sound in the limited time available, 2) they both are incredibly hard at the moment, and 3) he really, really, really loves John for doing this) and John continues reading, " _I've been expecting this call, and it won't take a minute_."

They share a brief smile until Sherlock realises--

"--right, right. Mrs. Hud--Henderson. That's fine. The lab results will be in tomorrow." John scratches his forehead and simultaneously shifts the phone to pinch it between his shoulder and ear as he ventures into fake-phone-transcript-territory and nods at Sherlock.

Sherlock tenderly picks the book from John's fingers and reads, " _I watched him as I removed first my shirt, then my shoes, my trousers, and then my pants. I caught his eye as my cock sprung free, and he smiled and licked his lips._ "

John seemingly enjoys the view as Sherlock shimmies one-handed out of each item of clothing and plays his part well, smiling and licking his lips at the aforementioned springing cue.

And Sherlock springs, no doubt about it.

" _I pulled his pants down--"_ Sherlock takes a step closer, and another, to dip a finger, then another, into the waistband smooth against John's skin _, "--and grabbed him with both hands--", (_ John's pants pool at his feet as he has his own turn at springing) _, "and began to jack him, revelling in the hardness and silky softness...of...his cock,"_ Sherlock manages to read, popping the _k_ as he gently wraps his hand around John, pulling slowly, tugging softly at him, their bodies nearly but not touching. Heat in waves between their skin.

John audibly swallows.

Sherlock, his hand caressing John's cock, traces the growing length out between two fingers, then tucks him into the close warmth of his palm before dropping his voice to a whisper. " _He moaned quietly and struggled to maintain his train of thought on the phone_."

A long unapologetic moan breathed out, John's bottom lip a sweet, wet curve. "Ffffucking bollocks, I haven't been fake talking. Sorry."

"We're getting to the bollocks, John." Sherlock wants to lean in for a kiss but instead rubs a few fingers up into the soft fuzzy skin behind the topic at hand before he does so. "And the fucking."

"Christ," John breathes again. "Uhhm, I'll take back the book."

"Why?"

"You should know." John shifts his weight more evenly between over two bare feet. "You need your mouth for this next part."

(Sherlock is in love.)

" _I licked the head of his cock and discovered what I had only fantasised about...the taste of him,"_ John reads as Sherlock drops to one knee, then the other, licking his lips as he looks to up to John.

A hand comes, wraps into curls.

Holding. Gentle.

(Loving. Is Loved.)

" _I inhaled his sweaty smell and began to lick the underside of his prick, causing him to gasp out loud,"_ and John does gasp as Sherlock nuzzles to the space between hip and cock, his nose brushing the soft tufts of dark blond hair before dipping his head and pressing a soft kiss to the side, another kiss, up, up, up, he lifts John up to lick him from the base to the tip.

Slow.

Sherlock feels his pulse in his throat as he angles up to meet John's gaze.

John's pants are around his ankles and Sherlock is naked at his feet.

"I love you, you know." Tender.

"I know."

A lean up and a stoop down and a kiss, then back to the book.

" _I drew him--drew--him--into my mouth--_ " comes John's voice narrating Sherlock pushing the tip of John's cock at his lips, dipping out a touch of tongue and a kiss pressing into the rose-coloured head of him while Sherlock shifts on his knees, closer, drawing John in, opening up around him, "--- _while I sucked, I began to explore his body...feeling his hard ssssstomach,"_ (John sucks in a breath) " _following the line of hair to his jungle of a chest, pla--playing with his hard nipples"_ and Sherlock is reaching up, thumbing over the tiny hard buds, hands magnets over skin, drawing blood to the surface, " _and finishing with his hard arse and balls_." He swallows as Sherlock follows his prompts. "Oh, fuck, that feels amazing. Oh ff--' _You sure you've never sucked cock before? I almost shot my load, but I want to save it for later, when we can do it together...ok?_ ' Oh my god."

Sherlock has John deep inside, as deep as he's ever managed; pulls back bit by bit, sucking lightly as he lets John's cock ease out between plum-red lips, his hands grasping at John's arse before one does down to wrap around his own dripping cock.

"Oi, naughty." John kisses that sweet pink mouth and helps Sherlock up to standing before easing him back onto the bed behind them. "I want a go," he says as he passes the book back to Sherlock, fingers lacing between fingers and the book protests; a worn-out _crack_ of the book spine signals a spark in Sherlock's blood.

He feels lit up from the inside out. Singed and electric.

Sherlock spreads his legs to welcome John between them. The bed sighs under their weight and John draws one of Sherlock's wrists up beneath his palm, pressing him down and back into the pillows. The other he collects, and kisses the inside; secret milky skin, mixed with adrenalin and a thin sheen of sweat. John's cock hangs heavy between his legs. Touches Sherlock above his pubic bone. (Here is where I'll love you, and here. And here.)

Sherlock reads, " _With that he had me lay on the bed and he began to kiss me all over..._ " and John bends his neck, turns his head, to place a kiss on Sherlock's eyebrow. On the corner of his mouth. On his collarbone, and nipple, and ribs, and the inside of his elbows (both) and the angle of his hipbone as it curves beneath his skin, and the flat skin above his belly button and Sherlock reads,"... _nipping and licking his way down, down ever closer to my rock hard prick"_ and John tastes him with his tongue, smoothing over scars and freckles. A nip on his belly, the pocket of skin behind his knee.

John makes him wet and breathes love onto him.

Sherlock's hands have come to rest on John's thighs and he drags his fingertips up and down through the fine soft blonde hairs, petting, clenching the muscles of his arse as John moves methodically closer and closer to his cock, pink and shining where it rests across his abdomen.

"Oh god." Louder than he'd expected. John runs the tip of his tongue up the length of him, pushes it a bit (gentle, deliberate) into his foreskin. "Ohhhh. God." Much louder.

"Is this right?"

"Hm?"

"The book."

"Oh. Forgot." He draws up his hand again from where it had collapsed across a pillow. " _Suddenly we were in a 69--_ " John scrambles, flips, his head over Sherlock and Sherlock's head beneath him, careful of knees and rogue ringlets, "- _-and his prick was in my mouth as he sucked mine in_ ...Jesus, John, I--I--Johhhn... _As he pulled my prick in, his hands caressed my body and a warm feeling of lust overtook me. His mouth began to work down my prick until I realised that his lips were touch--touch--touching my balls..."_ Sherlock manages as John follows suit. " _So this is what being deepthroated feels like."_

John pulls off with a little pop. "I've gotten this far before," he says, with a slightly wounded look.

"No, that's--it's the line. It's what I say in this part. What the narrator says, rather."

"Oh."

Sherlock breathes, and smiles, as John rolls him between his lips, gives him little licks. "By all means, continue."

"Thought I'd heard something about 69."

And Sherlock looks up to the glorious cock hanging above his mouth.

(They don't do this nearly enough, Sherlock resolves.)

(And opens up for him.)

They carry on until John's thighs start to tremble and Sherlock's fairly certain he should read the next part before, well, Before, so he gives John's bum a little pat and hands over the book. John kisses both of Sherlock's bollocks before reading, " _His hands found my hole and I felt a finger probing my arse--_ Oh, if you do say so--" and then there was one fingertip, then two, pressing gently at Sherlock, "--have you, you've got the--" and a squelch of lube which would've felt clinically cold except for the fact the John never allows cold lube to touch Sherlock's skin, so it's been warmed between fingers and "oh you feel good, you always feel _so good,_ " and John leans down for a kiss, then two, three on Sherlock's cock, and bollocks, and licks around the soft skin, hard to do upside down and backwards. But he does it because John can do anything, even hard things.

Sherlock is panting, knees out at his sides, John's cock resting on his cheek. He turns his head to lick at it, breathing heavy. Two fingers inside him, John's seeking familiar places only the two of them know. Two fingers, stretching and solid. Warm.

John guides Sherlock back into his mouth, sucks at him as he pushes two fingers, three. Opening. Opening. Opening. Sherlock arches his back up towards John. John's cock releasing pre-come into his mouth on his tongue. John's fingers working in the dark, inside him. A brush against his prostate, another, and Sherlock takes John in his mouth, in his arse, seeing stars, his knees resting on the duvet, John's knees a bracket around his head. He can see, feel, nothing but John.

Two fingers. Three. Wet soft sounds. Tasting sweet-salt and scent. Humming, building sparks up his spine, John's swallowing against his cock, the tip of his cock on the back of John's tongue, John's tongue, John's fingers in him, secret sparks, feeling tremors, shaking, shaking,

"How are things so far?" John asks. Rests Sherlock's cock in his hand. It feels oddly more naked, now.

(The book. He memorised his lines. That's really his line, Sherlock thinks, with John's cock in his mouth and John's fingers in his arse.)

(Sherlock remembers his lines too. He eases out John's cock.)

"Please fuck me. I need to know," Sherlock whispers.

John's eyes half-close. Coal-black pupils and dropped open lips. Wet and shining plum-purple mouth. Stretched.

Sherlock licks his lips. "Fuck me slow and gentle." He wants. "Please."

(The lines. He remembers his lines, as does John.)

John eases his fingers out and shifts again, face to face with Sherlock. "I want you so badly," John says, remembering, the book in his hand but not reading it. He'd remembered it. The line.

Sherlock kisses at his chest, his neck, his mouth. Wet and sticky, pulsing pricks between their legs as John crowds over Sherlock, rubs at his jaw with aching lips. He moves the pillows, presses them back, lifts Sherlock's legs up, pillows beneath his bum, kneels. Kisses at him. Licks around the pink skin, dips inside and kisses again. Sherlock's hands go to his hair, his neck.

"The book?"

"It doesn't matter."

"No, let's. Your voice." John's comes out rough.

And Sherlock picks up the book as John picks up the bottle to warm more lube between fingers and thumb. He strokes himself a few times and traces circles onto Sherlock's skin to get him wet as Sherlock reads, " _He placed his cock at my hole and whispered--"_

" _Just relax, let me do the work_ ," John inserts, again knowing his lines, so Sherlock feels his cock pulsing with pride at John's memorisation abilities in a time such as this, and John says, _"_ _Just relax...relax...okay now bear down_... _ohhh"_ and then the most incredible look on John's face.

(Loving. Is loved.)

Sherlock wants to close his eyes and drift on the purest, most pleasurable knowledge that John is fucking him, gently, fucking him, but he instead reads, " _and he was inside me.  Slowly he began to move and I found myself pushing back on him, meeting his thrusts with my own--"_ so Sherlock lets his body go, lets his hips move, thighs move, thrusting down into John as John thrusts up into him. His knees bounce up to his chest as he presses his feet into the bed and John shifts his weight on his arms to draw Sherlock's body closer, and Sherlock feels like what it must feel like to be the flame of a candle blown out, all sensation apart from John and John's body shut off, quiet, residual smoke rings drifting up into nothing as John fucks him, slowly, gently.

They kiss.

They kiss for a long time, and Sherlock strokes himself as John murmurs things against his mouth, _you're brilliant, you're so lovely like this_ and Sherlock whispers _I love you,_ _I wanted this and didn't know how to ask,_ and fingers on one hand lace into fingers on the other, and then John speeds up. Sherlock feels the spiralling spin of pleasure building, and John is starting to grunt, which means--

Sherlock again looks at the book. He reads, " _S-S-soon we were going fast and furious as I felt his balls slap against my arse. His hand grasped my--prick and took up the rhythm, faster, faster his cock pounded my arse....as he did, I became aware that my own orgasm wasn't far off..._ John, John, it's your--your--line--"

 _"You're close,"_ John groans into Sherlock's ear (a natural, truly, one glance was all it took for him to memorise), " _really close, right?"_  Hips going with the rhythm of his hand and their bodies, John bites at his bottom lip and looks down at where he's disappeared, hidden deep inside Sherlock. Blood bursting, burning, warm wet rubbing Sherlock watches John's cheeks and chest flush, rosy-coloured blooms and hot close violet singing in his veins the length of his body and John is pounding, pushing his hips, skin on skin on skin rests his forehead on Sherlock's forehead, _give me more, let me just, more,_ building patterns rocking together, thrusting, fucking, fucking, fucking, fucking gentle and slow and fast, fucking him, John's losing control of the rhythm, hips stuttering, deeper, deeper, _fucking Christ, that feels good, you're so good_ , bollocks slapping against Sherlock's arse as he rests their foreheads together, muscles tensing in his arse, his back, his belly, fucking him good just like he always wanted, _I love you for this, I love you for you,_ stretching him open pulsing deep sparks up his spine, lit up colours beneath his skin as he moans against John's mouth as John's breath hitches with each thrust, each stroke, each pull on his hard leaking heavy cock, clenching his thighs, fucking him gentle and slow and fast, fucking, loving him, just like, like he's always wanted--

And he's there, he's right there, he's close, closer, unraveling, coming--

" _Don't stop_ ," Sherlock pants, head thrown back, and reads out, _"I c-cried as my load moved up my co--my cock--come sprang from my cock--_ oh fuck John fuck-- _as he--he-- began deep thrusts into my arse, come all over the bed, my chest, his hhhhand_ \--John-- _everywhere ffffuck John John"_ and his body is singing, loose and tight at once, surging waves of pleasure and pleasure and pleasure and he's shaking in John's arms, the book forgotten in his hand, out of his hand, his own come across his chest, down John's fingers, shivering springs wound up and down his spine exploding, expanding, John's cock impressively hard inside him, pulsing, expanding to fill him completely, John still thrusting, hips lost on rhythm, just anything, anything, Sherlock's shaking, _come on John, come, come, fuck me, fuck,_ shivering sweat wet rubbing hot inside him, John's prick pulsing heavy, more, give me, _give me_

" _Fuck_ I'm coming I'm coming," John cries against Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock feels two deep thrusts and a burst, John's come filling deep inside him, John's hips a stutter, stop, stutter, push, push, muscles clenched and Sherlock holds him close, holds his head in his hands, book forgotten, holds John between his legs deep inside as John groans and presses one last, just one last press, twitch of pleasure with toes outstretched and gasps salt-wet against Sherlock's lips.

(Quiet. Breathing against ribs against ribs.)

(Loving. Is Loved.)

Minutes pass in breathing ribs against ribs against ribs in love in love in love.

Arms around, slowly, John pulls himself out and drags a finger through a ribbon of come connecting nipples as he kisses his way into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock hums and quiets the buzz in his brain and the base of his skull and sucks at John's bottom lip, his tongue, familiar, good. John.

Intertwined.

John rubs at Sherlock's come on his chest, in his fingers, ghosts fingers lightly over Sherlock's cock, feels for his own come, waiting, just there, starting to pool outside Sherlock's arse. Rubs the two together into his skin, Sherlock's skin.

They kiss.

(The book.)

"How does it end, then?"

(The book is forgotten, fell off the end of the bed probably.)

Sherlock shifts so John can curl onto his side on the bed, Sherlock bent up behind him. They should be chilly, sweat cooling and naked, but they're not. Calm. Warm, knees behind knees, back to belly, John lifts his head so Sherlock can slide an arm beneath his neck. He shoves the pillows out of the way, off the bed.

(They land on the book.)

"It ends with _We talked and explored as we got our breath back. Mostly, we just felt wonderful."_ Sherlock tucks his chin to rest on John's shoulder and wraps his other arm over ribs and under a bicep. "Bit...sentimental, I know."

"Nothing wrong with that," John says, and punctuates it with a kiss.

They sleep.

**Author's Note:**

> First off, if you've made it this far, thanks for reading.
> 
> Second, the text of Midnight Plowboy that Sherlock and John read to each other is actually from a short piece I found online, written anonymously and posted as a "first-time" story on the Nifty Erotic Stories Archive; you can read it in full [ here.](https://www.nifty.org/nifty/gay/first-time/first-time-210) It has no connection to the actual book by D.C. Greene or the film Midnight Cowboy.


End file.
